


Unexpected

by beetle



Category: The Hobbit (2012)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-02
Updated: 2013-04-02
Packaged: 2017-12-07 07:47:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,772
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/746059
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beetle/pseuds/beetle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Within sight of the Lonely Mountain, The fellowship of Thorin Oakenshield takes a well-deserved rest in an idyllic dale.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. An Unexpected Idyll

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: So very much not mine.

After taking his fair amount of ribbing from Fili and Kili about how pale and hairless he was—and stringy, something few Bagginses had ever been called . . . though a certain leanness ran through the Took side of the family—Bilbo had finally had  _enough_. Despite being tired and sore and achy—battling Orcs and Wargs was a hard business, not for the faint of heart or large of brain—he had gathered his clothes, his sword, and a precious, but dwindling chunk of Elvish soap, and waded further up the brook.  
  
And yes, he knows very well that it's foolish, perhaps, even in such an idyllic-seeming spot, to wander far from the others, but wander he does, till their voices and laughter were distant and the brook, itself, has taken a gradual bend that blocks their antics from his sight.  
  
Letting out a sigh of relief—and really, there were simply times when one had had enough of Dwarves and their ideas of merriment—Bilbo quickly, and with an efficiency borne of necessity, washes his clothes as best he can, and hangs them on the nearest, highest branches he can reach. Then he makes his way to the deepest part of the brook, which isn't very, with his soap in hand.  
  
He dunks his head and sets to work on his filthy, sweaty hair. It takes two more dunkings and soapings before it squeaks between his calloused fingers.  
  
Callouses . . . something he'd never had before in his life, save for when he was young, and had a tendency to lose himself in the backwoods and old, unused trails around the Shire. And even then, they were nothing like the callouses he now had.  
  
And these callouses are the least of the changes time and adventuring has made, so far. . . .  
  
Lathering up his chest and arms, he is pleased to note some definition there, something he'd _never_  had before. And in spite of what Kili and Fili had said about his paleness, Bilbo is still darker than he's ever been. He is actually . . . tan. At least where his clothes hadn't covered him.  
  
Squatting to rinse the first soaping away, Bilbo sighs again and cocks an ear back the way he'd come. He can still hear faint splashing and laughter. It makes him smile, just a little. They're all weary and battered from that last, desperate battle with the Orcs, still in shock that they're still _alive_  . . . but Dwarves are nothing, if not resilient.  
  
Especially Thorin Oakenshield.  
  
Now, Bilbo's smile widens and despite the slight chill of the brook, he grows just a tad warmer. A response he most certainly isn't used to. Usually, thoughts of Thorin bring about a sense of worry and reticence, shot through with a confusing mix of shyness and hero worship.  
  
The fact that Bilbo'd failed, throughout the whole of the quest, to do anything to endear Thorin to him, or at least turn that towering disdain and contemptuous dismissal into a grudging sort of tolerance, had all but crushed his hopes of feeling like part of the fellowship. Never mind that the other Dwarves treat him the way they treat Ori: as someone who's largely untried, but definitely one of their own.  
  
No, Thorin isn't so easily charmed. In fact, it wasn't until after the most recent battle with the Orcs that he'd finally changed his tune. It wasn't until Bilbo's attempt, however ill-planned and ill-fated, to save Thorin's life from said Orcs, that Thorin had displayed some other emotion, regarding Bilbo Baggins, than disdain.  
  
In fact, Thorin seemed to have gone a full  _one hundred and eighty degrees_ , regarding Bilbo Baggins. He'd been ever at Bilbo's side since Gandalf had brought him back to consciousness, and had stayed that way as they clambered down that great pile of rock on which the eagles had deposited them. Every stumble, every slip Bilbo had made that might have caused him even a moment of distress—even a stubbed toe—Thorin Oakenshield had been there to catch and right him, with that warm, slightly wondering smile and those ridiculously strong arms.  
  
It'd been bemusing and disconcerting. Thorin's vivid blue eyes seemed to always be on him, as if trying to figure out a perplexing puzzle. That, coupled with Fili and Kili's good-natured mockery had been what drove Bilbo upriver, so to speak. He was quite unused to being the focus of so much attention. Though, in all honesty, Fili and Kili  _always_  ribbed him, and that hadn't been nearly so discomfiting as Thorin's eyes on him, so unabashedly curious—  
  
Now halfway through his second lather, Bilbo pauses, the hairs on his nape and neck raising, his body breaking out in gooseflesh.  
  
He's being watched.  
  
Using the expedient of rinsing off to peer covertly around himself, he sees no one and nothing that hadn't been there a few minutes ago.  
  
He sees his sword, which he'd left hanging on a branch next to his shirt, right where it would do him the most good.  
  
Cursing himself roundly, he tries to shuffle nonchalantly toward his clothes and his sword, even managing to whistle jauntily as he goes. At any moment, however, he expects someone or some _thing_  to burst through the trees.  
  
But no one and nothing does.  
  
He's just within reaching distance of the blade—which is not, thankfully, glowing blue—when a voice says from across the brook: “You really oughtn't to be so far from your means of defense.”  
  
Starting so abruptly, he slips on a loose punch of pebbles, Bilbo goes down with a splash and a thud. This close to the bank, the brook is shallow enough that his hindside takes the brunt of his fall.  
  
Yelping, he tries to scramble to his feet, but before he can get any traction, strong hands are on his arms, hauling him up as if he weighs nothing. Once on his feet, Bilbo practically dances away from the nonrestraining hands and alternates between clutching his no-doubt bruised and scraped bottom and his very much not-covered frontside.  
  
Thorin Oakenshield, dressed in naught but his long, dripping wet shirt—with the Goblin-Cleaver belted on his waist—watches this all with loosely crossed arms and an amused half-smile.  
  
“Ah—what're you doing here?” Bilbo stammers, finally settling on covering his frontside, aware of how ridiculous he looks, but unable to think of what else he should do. “I thought you were with the others.”  
  
Nodding, Thorin's half-smile fades a bit. “I was, until I saw you wander off on your own. Which you really shouldn't do, at least not this far from the others,” he says gruffly. Bilbo huffs irritably.  
  
“I can defend myself without a gaggle of Dwarves at my side, please and thank you!”  
  
That half-smile flashes out for a moment as a grin. “ _That_  you've more than proven. But that doesn't mean there isn't safety in numbers. And as you can see, anyone or anything could have caught and  _did_  catch you unawares.”  
  
Remembering his sudden, hackle-raising realization that he was being watched—had that just been two minutes ago?—Bilbo's irritability is punctured and the air goes out of it in a rush as he realizes Thorin's right. As Thorin usually is, when it comes to matters of fighting and war.  
  
But . . . “I had to get away from Fili and Kili for a bit. You know how they are,” Bilbo offers by way of explanation, and Thorin nods again.  
  
“Indeed, I do, to my lament. If you like, I could have a talk with them. . . .”  
  
“No!” Bilbo, forgetting himself, raises his hands in a halting gesture. “I don't mean to tattle on them. They're fine, it's just that after the . . . everything . . . I suppose I needed some quiet time to myself.” Hands settling on his hips, Bilbo nods his satisfaction. “Just a little quiet  _me_ -time.”  
  
“That's understandable,” Thorin agrees, his eyes travelling down Bilbo's body, and in doing so, recalling to the Hobbit's mind exactly where his hands  _should_  be. Mortified, he's torn between slowly moving his hands back to his front to cover himself, or just brazening it out, as if he stands naked before Dwarf Kings everyday.  
  
“Em,” Thorin clears his throat, his eyes ticking off toward Bilbo's sword. He seems a tad . . . flustered and red about the face and he's definitely avoiding Bilbo's eyes. “Yes, well. If you're done, we should probably get back to the camp before Bombur eats his lunch  _and_  ours.”  
  
“Right! Right you are!” Bilbo exclaims with a nervous laugh. He wants to turn around and hustle into his clothes, but having already treated Thorin to his front, he's less than interested in presenting his back. Especially considering that it's likely gravel-scratched and splotchy from having been landed on. . . .  
  
Though why he would care whether  _Thorin_  would care about the state of his backside is beyond Bilbo, who is, at this moment, very confused and embarrassed.  
  
So he compromises, reaching behind him for what feels like his shirt—yes, it is still sopping wet, but clean, at least—and pulling it on. He fumbles with the buttons for what feels like eternity, managing not to button a single one—in fact, he pops one off, and swears, pining briefly for his lost sewing kit.  
  
The popped button disappears into the brook with a shallow  _plish_.  
  
“Here, let me,” Thorin says softly, and from much closer than Bilbo had last seen him. In fact, he'd somehow crossed the brook without making a single splash and was right in front of Bilbo . . . close enough for him to see every strand of silver in Thorin's wet, wavy dark hair.  
  
And this close, that hair looks both thick and soft. Like something it might be nice to run his fingers through while it dries. . . .  
  
“Such tiny, fussy buttons,” Thorin murmurs, his fingers bumping Bilbo's out of the way, but not _away_. His own fingers are long, but blunt and thick—the kind of fingers that look like they'd do more harm than help with a shirt like Bilbo's.  
  
But, contrary to appearances, they get the job done without popping a single button off. Slowly and steadily, they slip every button inside its proper hole.  
  
All the while, Bilbo's hands hover uselessly around Thorin's, even as they itch to reach out and brush that wild, thick hair back over Thorin's broad shoulders. . . .  
  
“Oh, look, you've got a l-laceration—“ Bilbo stammers as soon as he notices it, a livid red mark just peering out from Thorin's damp collar. Swallowing his nerves, he reaches out with more bravery than it had taken to slay that Orc—had  _that_  really just been a few hours ago?—and brushes Thorin's heavy hair over his left shoulder.  
  
Thorin's eyes meet Bilbo's, questioning and intense. So intense, Bilbo would look away . . . except that he can't.  
  
“I've got plenty of them, all over,” Thorin says quietly, tilting his head to the right, so Bilbo can get a better look at the wound. “The perils of Orc-fighting. They're nothing.”  
  
“Mm.” Bilbo leans in, noting the redness of the wound—not an open one, thankfully—and the bruise that's already forming around it, blue and purple and greenish. He also notes that Thorin smells like cool, clean water, leather, and iron. . . .  
  
Then Thorin's clearing his throat and Bilbo's opening eyes he hadn't even realized he'd closed, and freeing a hand still tangled in Thorin's damp hair.  
  
“I, er, suppose it'll heal alright, if you keep an eye on it,” Bilbo says, and unintentionally meets Thorin's eyes. This close, he can see flecks of lighter blue near the pupils and feel Thorin's body heat and it's all very confusing, yes, that must be the culprit,  _confusion_ , since Bilbo's eyes are fluttering shut again as he leans in and up—or maybe it's Thorin leaning in and down, who can tell when one is so very  _confused_?—and his still-hovering, useless hands land tentatively on Thorin's solid shoulders like tired, home-sick thrushes.  
  
Thorin makes a sound low in his throat, and his hands, heavily and firmly, are suddenly clenched on Bilbo's waist and pulling him closer. Pulling him in to lay a gentle kiss on each eyelid, then on Bilbo's forehead.  
  
Bilbo sighs, his arms sliding over Thorin's shoulders till his fingers can link behind Thorin's nape and underneath that glorious hair.  
  
“Master Baggins,” Thorin rumbles, low and somehow intimate, and Bilbo's eyes open just in time and just enough to see Thorin's eyes, so blue and so fierce, getting closer and closing, themselves.  
  
Then soft, chapped lips are pressed gently to Bilbo's bitten, equally chapped ones.  
  
A few moments pass, during which the kiss neither deepens nor ends, but holds in that chaste fashion.  
  
Then Bilbo moans and parts his lips and Thorin, swift on the uptake, holds Bilbo closer and parts his own lips. One hand slips around to the small of Bilbo's back where it clenches possessively.  
  
The kiss deepens. It does  _not_  end . . . at least not until a loud burst of laughter sounds from back downriver. They look toward the bend in the brook—no one is coming their way—then back at each other. Thorin's hand leaves Bilbo's waist to cup his face. One large, rough thumb brushes across Bilbo's kiss-swollen lower lip and Thorin smiles a little—just a slight crinkling around his eyes--his gaze following the motion of his thumb.  
  
“Been wanting to do that for some time,” he admits quietly. Bilbo huffs out a quiet, breathless laugh.  
  
“What? Since you woke up a few hours ago?”  
  
“A good deal longer than that, actually,” Thorin says, his brow furrowing as he searches Bilbo's eyes intently. Bilbo laughs again, bobbing up on his toes so he and Thorin are—more or less—eye to eye.  
  
“Well,  _I've_  been wanting you to do that since I opened my front door and saw you standing there, rugged and mysterious,” Bilbo does some admitting of his own. “You see, I've never known anyone like you.”  
  
“I can honestly say the same, Bilbo Baggins.” Thorin's crinkle-smile becomes a full smile, then a grin showing even, white teeth and lighting up his dark blue eyes. He leans close at the same time Bilbo does, and they're kissing again, much less tentatively. Thorin's arms slide back around Bilbo's waist and he lifts Bilbo up, swinging him around once, fast. Bilbo's laugh breaks the kiss and he holds on tight to Thorin, arms wrapped around his neck, legs coming up to wrap around hips. And even when Thorin stops spinning them, they remain clutching at each other, pressed against each other and staring into each other's eyes. There's something hard and hot pressed pretty persistently against Bilbo's backside.  
  
“Thorin,” Bilbo husks out the other's name, at the same time Thorin breathes Bilbo's. But Thorin's already walking them out of the chilly brook, onto the bank, then further up into the trees, to a grassy, somewhat less rocky spot.  
  
Taking a brief glance around that no doubt misses nothing, Thorin then kisses Bilbo hard and groans when that kiss is returned with equal, if clumsy ardor. He kneels carefully without letting go of Bilbo or disturbing Bilbo's hold on him and he bears Bilbo down to the grass gently, stopping their kiss to look into his eyes.  
  
“We probably haven't very long,” he says regretfully. Rather abashedly, Bilbo grins.  
  
“I probably won't  _last_  very long,” he replies, then his grin turns positively sheepish. “I've, er, never done this before, you know.”  
  
Thorin's brows shoot up his forehead, halfway to his hairline. “With a Dwarf? I can assure you, Master Baggins, I have nothing you haven't seen before,” he quips. Bilbo rolls his eyes.  
  
“Well, you see, that's just it: You do. I mean . . . I've never . . . done . . .  _this_  with  _anyone_. Ever.” Blushing, he runs his hand through Thorin's hair and pushing it back, shivering when it slithers back around Thorin's shoulders to brush Bilbo's face like a curtain. “So, I don't know how good I'll be—I suppose I should apologize in advance.”  
  
Thorin's amused gaze changes, settles into something warm and almost tender, and he reaches up to trace Bilbo's mouth with his index finger. After a few seconds, Bilbo nips Thorin's finger playfully before sucking it into his mouth for a thorough tongue-lashing.  
  
Thorin groans again, and the hard  _something_  that'd been poking at Bilbo's nether regions gets noticeably harder . . . and pokier. “Trust me, Bilbo Baggins. There's nothing about you that needs apologizing for—least of all  _this_.” Thorin crooks his finger slightly to stroke down Bilbo's tongue, which wriggles and darts cleverly.  
  
Swearing, and quickly removing his finger, Thorin replaces it with his mouth, chasing Bilbo's tongue, capturing it, and letting it go to start the chase all over again . . . till they're both breathless.  
  
“There's so much I want to show you,” Thorin whispers on Bilbo's lips, each word a tiny tease of a kiss. “Let me make you feel good.”  
  
Bilbo smiles almost dazedly. “You already do.”  
  
Then the shirt Thorin had so painstakingly closed is being opened all over again, both his and Bilbo's fingers bashing and bumping as they hurriedly get the job done—incidentally without a button being lost.  
  
Next to be undone is the sheath holding Goblin-Cleaver. But Thorin keeps her close at hand, ever vigilant, even now.  
  
Finally, they undo Thorin's shirt, and Bilbo can only goggle at the barrel of a chest, hairy and well-defined (and extravagantly bruised), and feel vaguely ashamed of his own narrow, mostly hairless chest and stringy, mostly unmarked body. If not for Thorin's hands pinning his wrists to the ground, Bilbo would surely curl in on himself and simply die.  
  
“You're so smooth and lithe,” Thorin murmurs, leaning down to kiss Bilbo's throat, and down to his chest. His beard tickles just a little. “ _Perfect._ ”  
  
“Come, now, I've hardly got the physique of a hero,” Bilbo says, turning red all over and hoping that somehow, Thorin doesn't notice.  
  
“You've got the  _heart_  of a hero,” Thorin looks up from Bilbo's abdomen, as serious as Bilbo's ever seen him. “It shines out of you like the sun. I'm only sorry it took so long for both of us to see it. Now,” Thorin says gravely, but his lips twitch as if he wants to laugh. “Let's see how much we can get up to before those well-meaning idiots come a-looking for us. Deal?”  
  
Bilbo smiles, slow and wide, then gasps as Thorin doesn't bother to wait for more of a response than that, and continues kissing his way down Bilbo's abdomen. “D-deal,” he gasps out, his eyes rolling up to the canopy above. All is bright green-gold light above him and Thorin Oakenshield's warm, talented mouth on him. In the distance, he hears a raucous burst of Dwarven cheers and Gandalf's name shouted on the back of it.  
  
The wizard is no doubt telling one of his raucous stories over lunch. And isn't it odd that Gandalf hasn't sent anyone looking for them, or come looking himself?  
  
Unless Gandalf knows that he and Thorin are quite alright.  
  
Unless—and here's the gut-wrenching bit—Gandalf knows that he and Thorin are engaging in some much-needed  _them_ -time.  
  
But  _how_  would Gandalf know. . . ?  
  
 _The same way Gandalf knows everything else . . . he just_ knows.  
  
Suddenly, blushingly, Bilbo rather thinks he and Thorin will have  _plenty_  of time to get up to . . . whatever it is they want before anyone comes looking for them.  
  
 _Although_ , he admits to himself as he arches up off the grass and just before the green-gold light that now seems to surround them quivers, then shatters, taking him with it.  _Our lunch is surely gone, by now. Bombur will have eaten it all._  
  
Not that Bilbo will be in any shape to notice again, or care, until it's time and past for supper.


	2. An Unexpected Sight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When the company breaks for lunch, Thorin and Bilbo disappear together and Kili is curious.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Who, me? Nah!

As soon as the company stops for lunch, Thorin and Bilbo disappear together.  
  
No one but Kili seems to notice—not even Gandalf—and, curious, he decides to investigate.  
  
It's sheer torture waiting until they're well and truly gone to quietly, stealthily—as quietly and stealthily as he's ever done, for Thorin is nothing if not keen of senses,  _especially_  hearing—but wait Kili does, absently helping with lunch preparations and laughing at Fili's jests.  
  
But sooner, rather than later, he finds himself tracking his uncle and their burglar. Through the woods for nearly half a mile . . .  _what could they possibly be going to do so far from camp?_  he wonders. Then thinks:  _Perhaps they're just scouting ahead._  
  
It's a reason that makes perfect sense, until Kili pauses when a sudden sound pierces the silence: a soft, stuttered groan that sounds like Thorin's name.  
  
Frowning, Kili ceeps slowly forward. By the time he can make out the forms of Thorin and Bilbo, those soft groans have been joined by Thorin's low, rumbling murmur—though what Thorin's saying, Kili can't make out. But he can guess.  
  
For not ten yards away in a small clearing, catty-corner to Kili's position, their esteemed burglar is naked, on his hands and knees, in front of a kneeling Thorin, his hands splayed on the rocky earth, gathering and releasing the loose, gravelly soil as he rocks— _is rocked_  bodily forward. Behind him, one hand clenching and unclenching on Bilbo's bare hip, Thorin is thrusting forward quickly and powerfully, his other hand soothing and smoothing up Bilbo's pale, freckled back.  
  
Kili covers his mouth before he can gasp and resists the urge to go sprinting back the way he came, screeching to the high Havens.  
  
Instead he quietly ducks back around the tree that's been hiding him and takes a slow, shaking breath.  
  
He doesn't know what to think or what to do. The only thing he's certain of is what he just saw. What he's still  _hearing_ : Bilbo's groans turning into pleading and moans, and Thorin's low rumbles turning into grunts—neither bearing any semblance to words, now—their breathing coming fast and arhythmically. Kili can even hear the smack-squelch of their bodies coming together.  
  
Without even realizing it at first, Kili's hand, the one that isn't clenched on the hilt of his axe, drops to the front of his breeches. The hardness he finds there surprises and dismays him, as does the liquid heat rushing from everywhere in his body, to pool at his groin.  
  
Feeling trapped in more ways than one—how on Earth is he supposed to get back to camp like _this_? Why is there even a  _this_  to begin with?—Kili tries to will it away. No mean feat when the sounds from the small clearing have accelerated and Kili's imagination is working to provide him with visuals of the scene unfolding behind him.  
  
 _This isn't right—I shouldn't be here,_  he thinks desperately, caught as he is between a rock and a hard place.  _But if I tried to leave now, Thorin'd hear me! They'd_ both _hear me!_  
  
Kili grits his teeth and closes his eyes tight, trying his best to block out the sounds of his friend and his uncle . . .  _fucking_  . . . as well as his own unexpected, involuntary response to this most unexpected sight.  
  
That pooling heat slowly turns into a burning that he can only barely tolerate without alleviating. But then, Thorin'd  _definitely_  hear  _that_. . . .  
  
By the time they finish—Bilbo moaning  _yes_ es and  _oh_ s, and Thorin crying out sharply several times—some agonizing minutes later, Kili feels as if he's ready to burst in every way that counts. His head aches, his balls ache, and his  _bones_  ache from all the bloody walking about they've been forced to do. He can't remember what it's like to  _not_  be exhausted.  
  
But Thorin and Bilbo don't seem to have noticed how exhausted they  _should_  be. Clearly they have reserves of energy to only be guessed at.  
  
Kili opens his eyes as low, lazy conversation comes from the clearing, and the sounds of clothing being put on and righted. He can't make out what's being said, and doesn't particularly want to. All he wants, with the sudden fierceness of one who's actually had a home, however briefly, is to _be_  home, with Fili, playing at being soldiers and retaking their homestead from the tyranny of no one.  
  
He yearns for simpler days, when all he knew was that he was going to be like his Uncle Thorin—a great and proud warrior beholden to no one and nothing other than the Dwarven people.  
  
Now . . . now, it appears Thorin is beholden to someone else. Caught, without the benefit of beard or braids to lay blame on.  
  
It's simply unbelievable. It—  
  
The sounds of conversation grow closer and Kili freezes behind his tree.  
  
“—probably missed lunch, again,” Bilbo is saying, though he doesn't sound particularly upset about it. Thorin chuckles.  
  
“Are you saying these little . . . idylls aren't worth missing a lunch here and there?” he asks, just as the pair pass Kili's tree, and Kili, who's ducked down below their eye-level. He's actually at about hand-level, for he can see that Thorin and Bilbo are holding hands, fingers loosely linked. Thorin's other hand, as always, is on his Elven sword.  
  
“'Here and there'? We miss too many more lunches and we won't have the  _strength_  for any idylls. I could swear you've lost about a stone in the past few weeks,” Bilbo admonishes.  
  
 _Weeks?!_  Kili thinks wonderingly, somewhat horrified at his own unobservance and the fellowship's.  _This has been going on for weeks?_  
  
“Well, then, it's a stone that I don't need,” Thorin says softly, leaning in to kiss Bilbo. It's a kiss that lingers long enough for them to stop walking, and slide their arms around each other.   
  
And Kili, watching them in this private moment, feels something quite different from yearning for the past or the anticipation of relieving himself of this most inappropriate desire in the very near future. He feels . . . sad. For Thorin and Bilbo, for himself . . . sad and jealous. That  _they_ should have this . . . special friendship that Kili will likely never have, now, thanks to this surely doomed quest.  
  
It causes Kili to feel a jumble of confused emotions. Emotions he's certain he can bury without the painful mess of having to sort them out—  
  
—but the pair have stopped kissing and are merely staring into each other's eyes, Bilbo carding Thorin's hair through his fingers, Thorin tracing Bilbo's lips with his blunt-ended index finger. . . .  
  
Kili closes his eyes until they're gone.  
  


*

  
  
When he wanders back into camp almost an hour later, everyone's too busy packing what little gear they have to notice his return.  
  
Well, except for Fili, that is.  
  
“And where did  _you_  get off to?” he asks, once the fellowship is on the road again. Asks it in a whisper, as if he suspects there's a juicy story in the telling. Kili merely shrugs, though his heart is racing and the hardness he'd thought taken care of begins to stir once more. He ruthlessly tamps down his imagination and pushes his memory of what he'd seen as far down from his conscious mind as he can.  
  
“Nowhere. Just . . . got a little side-tracked looking for, er . . . mushrooms.” Kili waves a hand dismissively, not missing the way Fili's eyes suddenly narrow in suspicion. They both start when, bringing up the rear, Balin and Gandalf laugh at something or other that probably only the very old find funny.  
  
“Mushrooms?” Fili echoes Kili disbelievingly. Kili shrugs irritably, glancing ahead of them. At the front of the company, Thorin and Bilbo are walking and talking together. Their shoulders bump with every step and their hands seems to brush each other more than is just coincidental.  
  
“Mushrooms,” Kili says firmly, shooting Fili a glare before slowing his pace and dropping back till he's next to a Dwarf who seems willing to keep his own counsel—which suits Kili just fine.  
  
“Master Bofur,” he says by way of greeting.  
  
“Master Kili,” Bofur replies, nodding and drawing on his pipe. As they walk, Kili sneaks glances at Bofur's calm, saturnine face, ignoring the puzzled, hurt looks Fili keeps casting back at him from around Bombur's girth.  
  
“Er, nice hat,” Kili finally says when Bofur catches him staring. Bofur smiles and blows concentric rings of smoke ahead of them.  
  
“Thank you, Master Kili.”  
  
And nothing more—aside from a few assessing looks—passes between them for the rest of that march.


	3. Dog-Watch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bofur and Kili share the dog-watch and ask each other questions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I just write it. Ownership's someone else's bag.

“May I ask you something, Master Bofur?”  
  
Bofur looks up from the flames of the campfire and at his watch-mate. Kili's dark eyes are sparkling not with mischief, but with simple curiosity.  
  
Adjusting his pipe, Bofur breathes out smoke in concentric rings. A neat trick taught to him by none other than their esteemed burglar, who sleeps just across the fire. “Of course. Only if I may ask  _you_  something in return, Master Kili,” he adds, partly out of curiosity of his own, partly as a deterrent, just in case there  _is_  some silly jest behind Kili's curiosity, after all.  
  
But, jest or no, Kili is nothing, if not persistent. He moves from the other side of the fire, until he's practically in Bofur's lap. He and Fili have no real concept of personal space—even for Dwarves. Kili even reaches out and tweaks one of the flaps of Bofur's hat. “This, then. Where'd you get it and why're you always wearing it? You're bald, under there, aren't you?”  
  
“I might be.” Almost absently swatting Kili's hand away, Bofur huffs out smoke in a long white plume. “Why do  _you_  wear your hair unbraided and your beard so short? It makes you look like a child, when you are most certainly not.”  
  
Kili looks gobsmacked for a moment—he even sits back, eyes darting to the other side of the fire, where he'd last been sitting. Where sleep Thorin and Bilbo, the former curled protectively—possessively—around the latter. They  _always_  sleep together so, since the day Bilbo nearly died saving Thorin's life. It's an open secret among the fellowship that the pair are lovers, though there is never any talk of it among them.  
  
“I reckon I do it because I'm like Thorin," Kili finally says quietly, looking troubled and discontented as he stares at Thorin and Bilbo. "I reckon I do it so I'll not be caught by either braid or beard.”  
  
Bofur snorts out a cloud of smoke. “And we see how well not getting caught's worked out for Thorin! I'd say he's been well and  _truly_  caught. And not necessarily by braid or beard!”  
  
Kili turns red enough that it's visible even this close to the fire, and Bofur laughs, peering closely at the young Dwarf. But Kili won't meet his eyes, instead searching the fire as if for a revelation. "I know . . . he went his whole life without being caught, and now . . . Master Baggins has burgled him as surely as if he was a pile of unguarded gold!" Kili shakes his head in abject puzzlement and Bofur feels rather sorry for him.  
  
“It's not  _so_  bad, being caught, you know?” Bofur ventures kindly. Kili's small, wry smile is but a shadow of his usual bright, mischievous one. “Even I caught and was caught, once upon a time. When I was not much older than yourself.”  
  
“Really?” Now Kili sneaks a curious look at him. A measuring, wary look. “What happened to her?”  
  
“Him. And there came a time when we both decided to let go.” Pausing to tamp down the contents of his pipe, Bofur shrugs just a tad regretfully. “He got caught by a pretty maid and I got caught up in . . . being solitary, I suppose.”  
  
“Oh,” Kili's eyes dart back to the fire again, ferret-quick and troubled once more. “I'm sorry.”  
  
“Don't be. It was lovely, while it lasted.” Smiling, Bofur elbows Kili in the side and the younger Dwarf starts, then smiles that small smile again. “Listen, there's nothing wrong with being caught, every now and then, young Master Kili. The trick is to not be caught by just  _anyone_ , but by someone of quality."  
  
“Is that so? And, er, who would  _you_  recommend I catch or be caught by?” Those dark eyes flash suddenly, challengingly at Bofur, who grins around his pipe. “Thorin's taken the prettiest member of the fellowship.”  
  
“Oh, I wouldn't say that he had,” Bofur replies his gaze as direct as his tone is nonchalant. Kili's eyes widen slightly and that deep blush springs up again.  
  
“Unfortunately for me, Fili only likes women,” he jests, looking away again. But this time, Bofur reaches out and turns Kili's face back till their eyes meet once more. The younger Dwarf's beard is soft and almost downy under his callused fingertips.  
  
“I wasn't speaking of your brother.”  
  
“I had a feeling that you weren't.” Kili swallows, and that small smile widens as slow as poured honey. He tweaks one of the flaps of Bofur's hat again. “I've answered  _your_  question, Master Bofur. What about  _mine_? What's under the hat?  _Are_  you bald as an egg under there?”  
  
This time, Bofur doesn't swat Kili's hand away. Instead, he quirks a bushy eyebrow and puts his pipe aside for the moment. “Take it off and find out.”  
  
Grinning, Kili gives the flap another experimental tug before carefully removing the hat. His eyes widen again and he blinks a few times before chuckling softly and mussing the few thick, bunched braids and mostly loose hair he finds under the hat, so that the whole mess falls down around Bofur's angular face. The hat gets placed to the side then forgotten by Kili, but not quite by Bofur, who's worn the hat since the morning his mother gave it to him. She'd known even then that without someone else to comb and braid Bofur's hair properly, it would remain a mess fit only for a good, warm hat.  
  
“Master Bofur,” Kili states somberly, but still laughing, even as he runs his fingers through the loose hair and over the messy braids as if trying to arrange it all into something aesthetically pleasing. “Why, I've half a mind to take out my comb! You've got enough hair to fur a whole 'nother Dwarf—you're not bald at all!”  
  
Bofur returns Kili's grin, and lets his hair be petted and his braids be tugged this way and that. _It's a start. And much has been made of less,_  he reminds himself.  
  
But aloud he says, and to another widening of Kili's pretty dark eyes:  
  
“Well, what do you know, Master Kili? You've caught me.”


	4. The Prank

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Falling prey to one of Fili's pranks, Kili is left high and not so dry. Bofur, of course, makes a story out of it. Other stuff happens, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Not a Tolkien, or a Jackson, me.

It's the first hot bath Kili's had since Rivendell, and it's  _exquisite_.  
  
The inn's small bathing room—four deep, man-sized copper tubs, one in each corner of the room—had been, at one point, filled with his kith and kin, all eager to clean up so they could get about the very serious business of a proper hot meal. Now, Dwarven laughter and cheers can be heard coming from the common room.  
  
Kili was quite alone, for once. No Fili to rib him and plot mischief with him; no Gandalf to give him stern, but wry looks; and finally, no Thorin and Bilbo to distract him with their quiet little happiness.  
  
Sighing, Kili ducks his head under the now admittedly luke-warm water and stays submerged for as long as he can. His thought being to drown the persistent thoughts of Thorin and Bilbo. The last thing he wants intruding on his lovely bath are the physical responses that accompany those thoughts.  
  
No, a public bathing room is  _not_  the place to indulge in such thoughts or deeds.  
  
Kili inadvertantly goes to take a breath, forgetting just where he is, and comes up spluttering and spitting out soapy bathwater.  
  
After pushing his sopping wet hair out of his eyes, he grips both sides of the tub and carefully stands up. As he's stepping out onto the bathmat, another burst of laughter comes from the common room, Thorin's chief among it, and Kili smiles in spite of himself. Since his brush with death, Thorin has changed in ways Kili can't even name—changed probably due, in large part, to Bilbo Baggins and their special friendship—but one thing that he recognizes and approves of is that Thorin  _laughs more_. Has laughed more in the past three weeks, it seems, than he had in all of Kili's experience.  
  
It would also seem that Bilbo has stolen nothing so much on this journey as some of the weight of misery and responsibility that Thorin has always carried on his shoulders. Which would nonetheless make him a master burglar, indeed.  
  
Kili snorts, reaching for a towel with which to dry himself, only to find the rack empty. Which is puzzling, since when Fili had gotten  _his_  towel, there'd been several more on the rack—  
  
“Damnit, Fili!” Kili swears, more exasperated than angry at having fallen victim to another of his brother's silly practical jokes.  
  
 _I'll have to come up with suitable payback over supper_ , Kili thinks grimly, reaching for the other rack, the one with the man-sized robes the inn had provided . . . only to find it, too, empty. And there'd been at least two or three left when Fili got out of his tub. . . .  
  
 _Something he won't see coming. . . ._  Kili grits his teeth, crossing his arms and wondering if he can sneak past the common room and down the hall to the room he and Fili, Bofur and Bifur share, without giving the whole premises a taste of  _Dwarf_  hospitality.  
  
He rather doubts it.  
  
Naked and still dripping wet, he begins his hunt for something— _anything_ —that could preserve his modesty for long enough for him to get to the room.  
  
Alas, the bathing room is as bare as Kili, himself.  
  


*

  
  
Bofur's reached the end of a jest—the one about the randy seamstress and the travelling salesman—when he could swear he sees out of the corner of his eye something pale and Dwarf-shaped flash past the common room entryway like a rabbit past a sleeping warg.  
  
But he dismisses it, and goes back to his story. The punchline fast approaches, and he means to get it just right.  
  
“. . . and the salesman said: “That's no pig, madam! That's my  _partner_!'” he finishes, with the perfect sense of comedic timing he learned fom his uncle when he was wee. There's a slight pause as everyone  _gets_  the punchline, then a burst of laughter loud enough and widespread enough to make Bofur glow like a furnace.  
  
He looks around at his kith and kin, grinning until he notices the four faces missing:  
  
Gandalf, of course. The wizard was no doubt out comuning with nature, or something. He goes off on his own more, lately, the closer they get to Erebor.  
  
Thorin and Bilbo . . . and everyone knows what  _they'd_  been getting up to, lately. Though when, exactly, they'd snuck out of the common room tonight is anyone's guess. Though Bofur's certain it'd been between this jest and the last.  
  
And finally, Kili . . . who Bofur hadn't actually seen since they'd arrived at the inn. Presumably he was either a-bed—unlikely, this early in the evening—or he was still a-bathing. Which was entirely likely, considering how fastidious he and Fili were.  
  
As his back is clapped and more ale poured in his stein, he thinks of that pale flash he'd glimpsed as it streaked past the doorway. . . .  
  
 _But why would he be running naked through the inn?_  Bofur thinks, both amused and alarmed—and yes, a little aroused, he won't lie to himself—and considering the story he could turn such a thing into. And he even has the perfect beginning for it, too:  
  
 _A naked young Dwarf runs past an inn common room, clutching his bits and searching for cover. . . ._  
  
“Tell another, tell another!” Bifur demands, still laughing and still pounding Bofur on the back. “You tell the best stories—always have!”  
  
“Aye, let's hear another,” Nori slurs, elbowing Bombur who's busily, happily ingesting his fourth helping of stew. Bombur starts—Bofur doubts he'd even heard the end of the jest, engaged as he is in his romance with supper—and nods eagerly before attending to his stew again. Bofur rolls his eyes.  
  
“Alright, then, you greedy lot. One more, then I'm, er, after the jakes to make room for more ale,” he hastily lies, leaning back and taking a quick puff of his pipe—from Gandalf's seemingly unending stores, and apt to make one more mellow than a country sunset—he throws planning and plotting to the wind and starts his next story:  
  
“Right, then. A naked young Dwarf runs past an inn common room, clutching his bits and searching for cover. . . .”  
  


*

  
  
Kili shuts the door to the room quickly and leans on it with a sigh of relief.  
  
A glance around shows the room to be empty, and exactly the way Kili remembers it—gear scattered everywhere—except for one thing: The pile of neatly folded towels and robes on Kili's bed like a present.  
  
“Ha-ha,” Kili mutters, stomping over to his bed, grabbing all of the towels and robes, save one of each, and dumping them on Fili's bed. Then he dries himself off—not much of a feat, since he's already mostly air-dried—and wraps the towel around his still-sopping hair. He then pulls on the robe—thin enough to look through, almost, but better than nothing, even though it drags the floor like a lady's gown.  
  
He sits on the edge of his bed, feeling quite suddenly drained. And not entirely because of Fili's silly prank.  
  
Kilis been feeling exhausted all the time, lately. The perils of questing, he supposes—and especially questing afoot. Of eating the same food for every meal, if one is lucky enough to have a meal. Sleeping in shifts with one hands on one's weapons at all times, jumping at every branch broken, every startled bird-call. . . .   
  
And now, they're back in what passes for civilization in these hinterlands. Staying at a modest, but clean inn, and for once, they're bathed, well-fed, and won't have to sleep in shifts and on dirt. Kili can sleep with his axe and bow and arrow on the floor next to his bed, instead of in his hands. Fili can play pranks safely, knowing he won't be costing anyone their lives in the playing.  
  
 _Well, that bit's not so wonderful,_  Kili thinks, then sighs and missing his own clothes, which are in the inn's wash, and the first such cleaning they've seen in months. He rubs the towel briskly through his hair before settling it around his neck. Then he runs his fingers through his hair, detangling what needs detangling—he'll be basted in a hot oast before he can be bothered to find his comb in this catastrophe of a room—when there's a knock at the door.  
  
The chambermaid?  
  
“Er, come in,” he calls, standing, and making certain his robe is belted and closed. The door opens and it's no chambermaid, but a wryly smiling,  _hatless_  Master Bofur, carrying a tray with a steaming bowl, a loaf of coarse brown bread, and a full stein. He's wearing a robe similar to Kili's, of course, and it also drags the floor.  
  
“Glad to see you're decent, lad,” Bofur says, laconically, and Kili turns red.  
  
“Em. . . .” he clutches at his robe. “You saw that?”  
  
“Aye, I did.” Bofur's smile widens. “Was it a dare?”  
  
“No . . . it was a  _Fili_. Stealing all the towels and robes and depositing them on my bed. Where they did me ever so much good.” Kili huffs and Bofur laughs.  
  
“Well, it made for a surprisingly good story to tell the lads. Well-told, too, if I do say so, myself. And I do.”  
  
Kili's eyes widen. “You . . . told the others?” He's quite horrified. But Bofur's shaking his head.  
  
“Not that it was  _you_. I turned it into one of my stories. Very involved—it completely diverged from reality after the part where you ran naked past the common room. There was even an Ent in it,” Bofur says proudly.  
  
Kili, still blushing, clutches at his robe again. “Master Bofur, your sense of humor, like my brother's, sometimes leaves much to be desired,” he sniffs.  
  
“Oh, don't get so up in arms, Master Kili. No one would recognize the naked young Dwarf in my jest as  _you_ —not even that cack-headed brother of yours. He's probably already forgotten that he pulled his little prank.” Bofur shrugs and holds out the tray to Kili. “Anyway, I thought you might, after your . . . adventure . . . like to take supper in private.”  
  
Brow furrowing, Kili takes the tray, his fingers briefly brushing Bofur's. “I . . . I thank you, Master Bofur.” He meets Bofur's dark eyes and smiles just a little, his own gaze ticking briefly up to Bofur's bare head. “Where's your faithful companion?”  
  
Bofur's own eyes drift up momentarily, as if he could possibly see his own head, and he chuckles. “In the wash, with everything else.” He runs a hand over his hair—which is completely unbound by tie or braid. It in fact, falls thickly past his shoulders, curtaining and falling into his face. And his mustache is, despite the bath, still curling gamely toward his cheeks. The brief patch of beard looks much the same as it ever does.  
  
Kili realizes he's just been staring at the area around Bofur's mouth—and yes, maybe at his mouth—and clears his throat, looking away when that mouth curves slightly in a familiar, lazy smile. “I notice your hair is unbraided,” Kili says quickly, then blushes again, suddenly remembering their brief conversation about braided and unbraided hair, not one week ago. For no accountable reason, he's suddenly anxious and a bit embarrassed.  
  
“Oh.” Bofur reaches up and absently brushes a lock of hair out of his face. It immediately falls back and he rolls his eyes. “I was going to wait for it to dry before doing anything with it. Heh, I was even thinking I might let it stay unbraided, like yours.” He laughs, reaching out and snagging a lock of Kili's own hair. He tugs it once and lets go quickly. “Fortunately or unfortunately for me, my hair is far too coarse to leave unbraided. And I'm far too old.”  
  
His own chagrin forgotten, Kili tilts his head curiously, reaching for the persistent lock that hangs in Bofur's face. It  _is_  coarse between his fingers, but straight and heavy. There are a few strands of grey mixed in with the brown.  
  
“Your hair is not unsuited to wearing unbound, Master Bofur,” Kili says, pushing the lock back and tucking it behind Bofur's ear. This time, it  _stays_  back, and Kili smiles, meeting Bofur's eyes again. They're amused and attentive, but otherwise inscrutable. “And one is never too old to go unbound.”  
  
“Is that so, Master Kili?”  
  
It's a murmur disguised as a question, and Kili shivers for no reason he can explain to himself. “T-That's so, Master Bofur,” he stammers and clears his throat again, then looks down at the tray. “Thank you for bringing me supper.”  
  
“It was my pleasure,” Bofur says, sounding slightly chagrined himself. Then he quickly turns toward the door, his robe dragging behind him. “Good evening, Master Kili.”  
  
“I don't suppose you'd like to . . . keep me company for a bit?” Kili mumbles to his stew, completely out of nowhere.  
  
Bofur pauses, his hand on the doorknob, the door slightly ajar. Kili swallows and tries on a smile that feels a bit seasick. “I mean, you don't have to, if the others are expecting you back . . . but if you wanted to stay. . . .” he tells his loaf of bread in a voice that's aiming for casual, but that sounds as nervous as Kili suddenly is.  
  
The door to the room clicks shut and before Kili can draw another breath, Bofur is standing before him again. When Kili looks up, that lazy smile is gone, replaced by a different, more solemn smile.  
  
Bofur bows slightly at the waist. “Keeping your company is  _always_  a pleasure, Master Kili,” he says, no hint of a jest in his tone or his dark eyes.  
  
They stand there, gazes locked, until Bofur's smile turns wry again, and he glances away.  
  
“A pleasure always,” Bofur repeats, his voice as wry as his smile. “But I fear your  _eyes_ , Master Kili, will be the death of me.”  
  
“My eyes?” Kili blinks uncomprehendingly.   
  
“And if not your eyes, then your mouth.” Bofur's gaze ticks to the offending organ for a moment.  
  
Startled, Kili's hand flies to his face. “What's wrong with my mouth?”  
  
Bofur chuckles briefly. “Absolutely nothing, and therein lies the problem.” He sighs, but it's not an unhappy sound.  
  
“What problem?”  
  
Clasping his hands behind his back, Bofur suddenly looks quite serious. “May I speak plainly? No more jests or double meanings?”  
  
“You may always speak plainly with me, Master Bofur . . . but I must admit to some confusion as to what we're speaking  _about_.” Kili shakes his head, hand still over his mouth so that his voice is muffled. Bofur smiles a little and reaches out to take Kili's hand and move it from his mouth.  
  
Kili lets him, still rather puzzled by the turn their conversation has taken.  
  
“ _Master_  Kili. . . .” Bofur starts, almost gruffly, then pauses as if he's forgotten what he meant to say. Then he gathers himself and starts over. “Master  _Kili_.”  
  
Bofur's palm is rough against the back of Kili's water-softened skin. “I'm listening, Master Bofur. If you have aught to say—“ Kili begins when nothing more is forthcoming after his name.  
  
“A kiss!” Bofur blurts as if he's been kicked in the behind. Then  _he_  blushes. “A kiss,” he says again, and Kili's mouth drops open.  
  
“You . . . you wish me to kiss you?” he asks in a shocked, timorous voice, his face burning as if there are banked embers under his skin. Bofur's eyes are scanning his face intently.  
  
“Actually,” he breathes, leaning closer. “ _I_  would like to kiss  _you_.”  
  
Surprise and shyness temporarily forgotten, Kili frowns, only absently noting the way Bofur's gaze drifts to his mouth. “There's a difference?”  
  
Bofur's wide grin shines out like the sun. “I think you'll find that there is,” he says, taking the forgotten tray from Kili, and placing it on the bed next to him. Then he's standing before Kili once more, only smiling a little, as if trying to contain some larger joy than that tiny smile could possibly express.  
  
He places his hands on Kili's shoulders, heavily, firmly, then slides them slowly upward till they're cupping Kili's face, his thumbs stroking the corners of Kili's mouth.  
  
“Your  _mouth_ , Master Kili,” he says for the umpteenth time, and this time, Kili finally _understands_  what Bofur means. And when the other Dwarf leans in till their foreheads rest against each other, Kili's breath catches in nervous anticipation. “Your mouth and your  _eyes_  . . . have quite undone me.”  
  
“Master Bofur. . . .” Kili finds his hands moving of their own accord: one going to Bofur's hair to card and comb through it, the other coming to rest on Bofur's waist. He looks into Bofur's dark, shining eyes—they're all he can see, this close—and wonders what's come over him. It feels as if the world has quite suddenly stopped spinning. As if he and Bofur are the only two people in the world, and that everything in that world is holding its breath.  
  
And he remembers Thorin and Bilbo, standing in the woods in almost exactly the same way, gazing into each other's eyes as if they'd be content to do nothing more for the rest of the day. He remembers the kiss that had preceded said staring, and in this moment he realizes that  _he wants_  that intimacy. Despite his lifelong disdain of it—his  _shunning_  of it—he wants it, and very badly.  
  
And he wants it  _now_  . . . with Bofur.  
  
“May I kiss you, Master Kili?” Bofur asks—rather unnecessarily, as their noses brush and their eyes close.  
  
“Please, please, do,” Kili murmurs against the lips that are already covering his own. Pushing against and demanding action of his own. Tickling and tasting his own, and coaxing them open patiently.  
  
That soft, desperate moan must be coming from Kili, because Bofur's voice is deeper. And anyway, would Bofur moan so, just from one simple kiss? Surely he's had kisses that would make  _this_  kiss evaporate from memory like dew in the midday sun. . . .  
  
Bofur's arms have made their way around Kili's waist and Kili's arms have wound around Bofur's neck by the time the kiss ends much the way it started: with their foreheads pressed against one another.  
  
Kili's still trying to catch his breath when Bofur chuckles and squeezes him close.  
  
“If I had the means to,” he begins wistfully. “Ah, I would lay chests of jewels at your feet, Master Kili . . . I would pay court to you in the manner which you deserve.”  
  
“Court? Me?”  
  
Bofur nods. “Aye.” He leans back a little to look Kili in the eyes, his own sparkling with amusement. “Didn't think all I wanted was one kiss— _cracking_  good, though it was—did you?”  
  
“I . . . hadn't really given it any thought at all,” Kili admits sheepishly, his face now going up in flames. Bofur reaches up to caress his cheek with the tips of his fingers.  
  
“How easily a blush heats your cheek,” he says wonderingly, and smiles. “How lovely and fair you are.”  
  
No stranger to such compliments, but nonetheless put off by them, Kili frowns. “Maidens are lovely and fair, Master Bofur.  _I_  am a warrior.”  
  
“And as fine a warrior as one could hope to have at his side or at his back,” Bofur acknowledges. His rough fingers drift down Kili's face, to his mouth, and trace his lips. “I would rather have you at my side, fighting, than any hundred armies.”  
  
Kili shudders and sighs. “The time is coming where you may have a chance to rethink that statement . . . Erebor draws near.”  
  
“That it does.” Bofur nods solemnly. “And with such treasure as I plan to win, perhaps I might win enough to pay court to a prince of Erebor in proper fashion.”  
  
Kili's face heats up again. “This isn't a song, nor am I a maid, whose head can be turned by talk of treasure and pretty jewels. I'll have plenty of my own, anyway.”  
  
Bofur laughs self-deprecatingly. “Then what could I possibly give you, Kili, son of Dis, to plight my troth?” he asks earnestly, his hands clenching apprehensively about Kili's waist. “What would you have of me?”  
  
Kili thinks for a few moments, then smiles crookedly, but diffidently. “Well, I wouldn't want to be the only one who'd never heard the one about the naked Dwarf running past the inn common room,” he admits softly.  
  
Bofur's surprise is palpable. Then quickly covered by that customary, laconic story-teller's mantle. Though there's a hint of mischief around his eyes and twitching his curling mustache.  
  
“Oh, and he was clutching his bits as he went for cover,” Bofur adds grandly. “Can't leave  _that_ part out, Master Kili. It's the  _details_  that really bring a story to life, is it not?”  
  
“Of course,” Kili agrees dryly, wondering if he's going to regret this.  _Any_  of it.  
  
But another look into Bofur shining eyes—Bofur's  _eyes_ , and yes, his mouth, are both very distracting to Kili, now, knowing what they can do—and his doubts are swept away by something as strange as it is powerful. A yearning for not just companionship, but this  _paricular sort of companionship_ , that goes marrow-deep. For fireside chats and walking the road together and sharing meals—and yes, kisses.  
  
“. . . and the  _elf_  replied—“ Bofur is saying, hip-deep, now, in his story. Kili rolls his eyes and stops the tale by the simple expedient of kissing Bofur silent.  
  
Well, silent except for the low groans that are most  _definitely_  coming from Master Bofur.  
  
When the kiss ends this time,  _Kili's_  the one with sparkling eyes and pleased laughter.  
  
“Finish it later, eh?”  
  
Bofur blinks almost dazedly and nods. “Aye. That I can do.” He caresses Kili's face again, an almost sober look crossing his face.  
  
For this kiss, they meet each other half-way. And by the time  _this one_  is finished, Kili's stomach is growling, and Bofur confesses to having forgotten the end of his story entirely.


	5. Lofty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The fellowship stops to inquire about a pony in the village of Lofty. During dinner, Fili unwittingly provides the fellowship with much amusement.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: No harm, no foul.

The next village they stop at is a day's march off, and it's called, of all things,  _Lofty_.  
  
Gandalf is of a mind to see about a pack animal, since they've once more acquired enough gear that carrying it all, all the time, has become cumbersome. Nothing too fancy, perhaps a pony—something sweet-tempered and sturdy. That's the order of the day.  
  
He marches into Lofty with this noble goal firmly in his mind, and none of the rest of the party are bold enough to point out that  _Lofty_  is anything but, and the odds of finding a decent pack animal in a village that's more mud and sullen-faced drinking men, than good, honest, working-folk, are slim to none.  
  
“Be sure to check its teeth before agreeing to a price, Master Gandalf,” Thorin calls impatiently as Gandalf stalks off toward one of two barns on the one-street village.  
  
“I know how to go about purchasing a pony, Master Thorin,” Gandalf calls back tersely, already halfway down the long, muddy street. They can hear the squelch of his boots from where they stand, on the outskirts.  
  
None of them are eager to enter Lofty, but enter they do, Thorin leading the way in grim silence, Bilbo by his side, looking as hopeful as he ever does, when they come across a village, no matter how squalid.  
  
And Lofty may be the most squalid of them all, so far.  
  
Bringing up the rear of the party are Bofur and Bifur, the latter telling the former that they'd all best check for lice once they're a good distance from Lofty. Bofur laughs heartily.  
  
“What's so funny?” Bifur asks.  
  
Kili, walking a few feet ahead of the pair, with Fili, feels his mouth curve in a small smile.  
  
He also feels Bofur's eyes on him, now and then, more often than not, and that has sent many an unaccustomed thrill up his spine. And to other places.  
  
“It looks like someone knocked this town down and it never bothered to get back up,” Fili mutters, sounding almost personally offended at the state of the depressing little village. “There'll be no fun here but whate'er we brought with us,” he sighs morosely.  
  
Glancing behind him just in time to catch Bofur's gaze, Kili blushes, but smiles, getting a smile in return, and Bofur's pipe raised in a wry salute.  
  
“What're you smiling about?” Fili asks glumly, looking back and seeing only Bofur and Bifur, one smiling his usual smile, the other glaring at the hostler who'd come out to see the strangers walking through.  
  
“Nothing,” Kili replies, turning his eyes forward once more, smile still firmly on his face. “Nothing at all.”  
  


*

  
  
Lofty isn't big enough to have an inn, so Thorin arranges for them to stay in the town miller's barn, not a quarter of a mile outside of town, and away from the worst of the mud.  
  
“I suppose Gandalf will find his way here with whatever animal he buys,” Thorin says grimly, arms akimbo as he stares off into the sunset. He cuts quite a heroic figure, though no one but Kili—and, of course, Bilbo—seems to notice: Kili with mild envy, and Bilbo with something so pure and powerful shining out of his eyes, Kili feels as if he's snooping, just by observing it.  
  
So he turns his eyes to his task—starting the evening fire, a goodly distance from the barn—and lets his mind wander. It doesn't go very far before rough hands are taking the flint and steel away from him, with no small amount of finger-brushing.  
  
“Wool-gathering is no way to start a fire, Master Kili,” Bofur says, striking the flint and steel into the tinder several times himself and getting it lit much faster than Kili ever does. “There we go.”  
  
“My thanks, Master Bofur. But now, whatever shall I do with myself?” Kili asks in what, for him, are coy tones. Bofur smiles around his pipe.  
  
“Well, you could come with me and gather mushrooms, before the sun sets entirely.” Bofur nods at the woods bordering the miller's land and stands up.  
  
“Alright,” Kili says, accepting the hand up Bofur offers, pleased when Bofur seems reluctant to let go. They make their way across the yard, shoulders bumping, hands brushing, both smiling. Only one person notices them go.  
  
“Where're you two going?” Fili calls.  
  
“Mushrooms!” Both Dwarves call back at the same time, walking faster, and leaving Fili to wonder about his brother's sudden and increasing obsession with mushrooms.  
  


*

  
  
By the time Kili and Bofur reach the treeline, their hands have stopped brushing because their fingers are linked.  
  
Once in the forest far enough that they can't see the barn and yard—and presumably the occupants of the barn and yard can't see them—Bofur stops, drawing Kili up short and back toward him.  
  
Kili finds himself turned in Bofur's strong arms, so they're face to face, grin to grin.  
  
Bofur brushes Kili's hair out of his face tenderly, his fingers coming to rest near Kili's mouth, where they linger gently.  
  
“I can live without mushrooms with supper, if you can, Master Kili,” he murmurs, and Kili kisses him hard.  
  


*

  
  
The sun has almost completely set and Kili and Bofur still aren't back.  
  
Only Fili seems to notice. Everyone else is caught up in eating, or drinking, or staring besottedly at each other as if they're the only ones left on the planet (this last would be Bilbo and Thorin, and  _only_  Bilbo and Thorin, thank goodness).  
  
Even Gandalf has come straggling in, with an animal that's fighting him every step of the way, behaving more like a mule than a pony. It's ugly as troll's backside, too, and Fili guesses they'll be offloading the beast at the village  _after_  Lofty, because worse than no pack animal at all, is one that's so damned resistant.  
  
They'll never be able to keep anything on it, or trust that it won't run off, in the long run.  
  
Fili sighs, taking a bite of his sausage and bread. From across the fire, Bifur catches his eye. “And what's the matter with you, lad? Missing your other half?”  
  
Sitting up straighter, Fili bends a stern glare at his elder. “If you  _must_  know, I find myself concerned that my brother and Bofur have been gone for so long. One wonders how many mushrooms they think we need with supper!” Fili sniffs.  
  
For a moment there's silence around the fire. Then nearly everyone bursts out laughing, loud and long. Even Gandalf, who'd been looking awfully put out, musters a chuckle.  
  
“What?” Fili asks, looking around at everyone, wanting to be let in on the joke, if joke there is. “What's so funny?”  
  
“Mushroom-hunting, is it?” Bifur snorts. “Well. I doubt very much they'll find any where  _they're_ looking!”  
  
Another laugh goes up around the fire and Fili's practically glaring, now. “What  _are_  you all laughing at?”  
  
“Oh, lad,” Balin says, wiping at his eyes. “There's no need to worry. Bofur and your brother are just fine. Just fine.”  
  
“How do  _you_  know? They've been gone for over an hour—and the sun's almost completely set! Who knows what's lurking out there? They probably won't even be able to  _see_  the mushrooms, it's so bloody dark—oh, what's so funny, now?” Fili demands, throwing up his hands when they all laugh again. Even  _Thorin's_  smiling, and the hand not on Bilbo's knee is occasionally covering his mouth as if he doesn't want to be seen laughing at this particular joke. Whatever it is.  
  
And Bilbo, for his part, is smiling wryly into his cup, his other hand coming down to cover Thorin's.  
  
“Are  _none_  of you concerned with their whereabouts?” Fili demands.  
  
“Master Fili,” Gandalf says, clearing his throat and with a twinkle in his eyes. “I suggest you trust your brother to take care of himself in the wild woods of Lofty. He and Bofur will be alright—and no doubt back with us, shortly.”  
  
“But—“  
  
“ _Relax_ , nephew,” Thorin says kindly, but still with an air of command. “Let Kili mind his business, and you mind yours.”  
  
“But Kili's business  _is_  my business,” Fili says plaintively  
  
“Oh, not tonight, it's not, lad,” Bifur states. “I can tell you what your brother and Bofur are up to, in those woods, and it's  _not_  hunting for mushrooms.”  
  
“Hush, Bifur,” Thorin says, and for a wonder, Bifur doesn't gainsay or argue. But it's too late. Fili's like a hound on the scent.  
  
“Then why'd they  _say_  they were hunting mushrooms, if they're not?”  
  
Bifur snorts and mutters something about  _dense, young, granite-thick Dwarves_.  
  
Searching every face at the fire and seeing nothing but amusement—most of it at his own expense—and from Bilbo a look of compassion and wistfulness, Fili sulks for a few minutes as for once, the ribbing is directed at him and his apparent denseness.  
  
It's  _most_  irritating.  
  
So Fili jumps up, stalks over to Bombur and hands over the remains of his supper. Then he stomps off toward the barn.  
  
But not to turn in for the night, no.  
  
Instead, he waits just within the huge doors, listening to the conversation in his absense:  
  
“Bofur and Kili . . . who'd have thought,” Balin says almost wonderingly, and Bifur snorts again.  
  
“Anyone with eyes. He stares at that lad hard enough to wear holes in him.”  
  
“Any port in a storm for them both, I suppose.” This fom Gloin.  
  
“I don't think it's like that at all,” Bilbo ventures, that wistfulness in his voice, now. “And it's sort of . . . sweet. Them sneaking off to be together.”  
  
“You  _would_  think that, eh, lad?” Balin joshes Bilbo good-naturedly, to general laughter, and Fili can all but hear the Hobbit blush. And all but see Thorin glower.  
  
“I think we ought to mind our own affairs, and leave Bofur and Kili to theirs. You know what I mean,” Thorin adds sharply, when stifled laughter sounds.  
  
Then the subject is changed by Oin asking Gandalf whether he intends to beat some manners into that prickly beast he'd bought.  
  
Gandalf  _harrumphs_ , and says something Fili can't hear, for Fili is at the back of the barn, and easing open the man-sized back door. On his way out, he notices something leaned against the wall. A moment of thought sees him take it up then keep going.  
  
He stalks out into the dusk, skirting the firelit barnyard by a wide margin, and entering the woods, shovel in hand.  
  


*

  
  
Kili doesn't know how long they've been “mushroom-hunting,” but this close to the ground and this close to each other, it's actually become too dark to see Bofur's face between kisses.  
  
They'd given up standing some time ago, and sunk first to their knees, then to an awkward sititng-position that lasted about as long as it took for Bofur to spread his cape out and lay Kili down. In the pleasant eternity that followed, they both became too warm for their outer tunics, and those came off, leaving them in shirtsleeves and breeches only. And soon enough, the shirts were slowly unbuttoned, both Dwarves grinning at each other and panting for air before leaning in for more kisses.  
  
Now, Bofur is pushing off Kili's shirt while Kili struggles with the last of Bofur's buttons. Their hands keep bumping into each other, and they laugh and kiss.  
  
“I wish I could see you,” Bofur breathes in Kili's ear, laving it with his tongue and nipping the lobe with his teeth. Kili gasps and arches up against Bofur's solid body. He briefly feels Bofur's erection, hard and seemingly huge pressed between them. But Bofur turns his body away slightly.  
  
“Sorry,” he murmurs, and Kili tentatively reaches for that hardness, placing his hand flat upon it. Bofur hisses and groans.  
  
“I wish I could see you, too, Master Bofur,” Kili whispers, turning his face to where he thinks Bofur's is, his hand grasping as tight as he dares. Bofur's breathing, heavy and hot on Kili's cheek, now, makes him smile and aim a kiss for what correctly turns out to be Bofur's mouth.  
  
“I don't wish to . . . take advantage,” Bofur grunts, his body gone still, but not turning away from Kili's hand. “I wish to court you properly. . . .”  
  
“I already told you, I'm not some dainty maid to be wooed and cossetted—“  
  
“Kili,” Bofur says softly. “I don't pay court to turn you into a maid, but to show you respect. As an heir of Durin, a prince of Erebor, and the young man I wish to—“  
  
Bofur falls silent and Kili takes a stuttered breath. “Wish to what?” he asks, and receives no answer. “Bofur?”  
  
But before Kili can ask again, feather-light kisses are being pressed unerringly to his eyelids, the tip of his nose, and his lips.  
  
“You are special to me,” is what he says, feeling for Kili's hand in the dark—still its exploration of the tempting hardness it holds, and links their fingers. “There'll be time enough for  _that_ , later.”  
  
Kili snorts. “Time? What time do you think we have? Erebor draws near.” He brings his face close to Bofur's, till their noses brush and he can feel the tickle of that ridiculous mustache on his own cheeks.  
  
“That, it does,” Bofur agrees quietly, squeezing Kili's fingers. “But I'll not let fear of the future drive me to do something hasty in the present. Besides,” he chuckles wryly. “There's something to be said for delayed gratification.”  
  
Kili sighs, wriggling around till his own neglected hardness is pressed against their linked hands. “I'm not afraid,” he promises breathlessly. “Of the future, or of  _this_.”  
  
“I know you're not, Kili, but . . . but there are some things worth waiting for, and this, what's between us, I like to think, is one of them. I didn't understand that when I was younger, but I understand it now, and I hope that if I impart little else to you, I impart that.”  
  
Silence falls between them for some minutes as they hold hands and stare into the spaces where they take each other's eyes to be.  
  
“I know you're not as old as you make out to be,  _Master_  Bofur,” Kili finally says, and Bofur laughs. “Nor am  _I_  as young as you like to think.”  
  
“Oh? And how old are you, Master Kili?”  
  
“Old enough,” Kili replies firmly, leaning forward to kiss Bofur. He misses the other Dwarf's mouth on the first try, but captures it on the second. Lost in each other, they kiss until a sharp sound makes them stop.  
  
“What was that?”  
  
“Branch snapping, it sounded like.”  
  
Silence again, but no more branches snap. There's no sound but the crickets and other members of the nightly chorus getting tuned up.  
  
“Huh. Perhaps we should be getting back. It's going to be tough enough going without it being pitch black, to boot.”  
  
“Well, since you're not going to roll me onto my stomach and bugger me, I guess we  _should_  make our way back. . . .”  
  
“Cheeky.”  
  
The quiet sound of laughter that's smothered by a kiss. Then the pair are feeling around for their discarded clothing and dressing carefully.  
  
By the time they're done, it  _is_  practically pitch black, but Bofur has his bearings and slowly leads them without incident to the edge of the woods, where they can see the fire still burning and hear sporadic laughter.  
  
Hand in hand and smiling, they make their way back to the fellowship.  
  


*

  
  
Fili widely skirts the barnyard and creeps toward the back of the barn. He lets himself in by the man-sized door and leaves the shovel next to the door before easing it shut and locking it.  
  
“What've you been up to?”  
  
He starts, and whirls around to find himself face to face with Bilbo Baggins.  
  
“Er,” Fili says guiltily. “That is—“  
  
Bilbo's eyebrows quirk till they've disappeared under his fringe. Then he smiles and holds up his hands. “Never mind. It's probably none of my business, anyway.” His gaze drifts to the shovel near the door then back to Fili. “Er . . . as long as everything's alright. . . ?”  
  
“Oh, yes! Everything's lovely—just grand!” Fili exclaims, smiling his biggest, though unbeknownst to him, least trustworthy smile. “Just—er . . . making certain the back way is secured. It is.” Fili gestures at the lock on the door.  
  
“Right. Well, I just came to let you know that Gandalf surprised us all with a lovely pie from Lofty that he declares  _fit to eat_  . . . thought you might want to know before Bombur eats it all,” Bilbo says, shrugging and smiling again.  
  
Fili smiles back—for real, this time, though the thought of eating anything that originated in Lofty is revolting, no matter what Gandalf says. “Thank you—I do believe I'd . . . like some.”  
  
He follows Bilbo back out to the fire and takes his seat next to Nori. Bilbo sits next to Thorin, of course, who despite being in what appears to be deep conversation with Gandalf, still puts a possessive arm around the Hobbit and draws him nearer. Fili rolls his eyes.  
  
Shortly thereafter—having pushed his pie around his plate without taking a bite, and seriously considering just giving the whole mess to Bombur, anyway—who should reappear, but his brother and Bofur, hastily letting go of each other's hands as they approach the fire.  
  
Swallowing the reflexive anger and protectiveness that threatens to overwhelm him—Kili  _is_ , after all, his  _little_  brother—Fili turns his eyes back to the pathetic pie wedge on his plate and sighs.  
  
For once,  _he_  doesn't feel the almost urgent need to embarrass and tease someone. Not when that someone is his little brother and it's about . . .  _this_. . . .  
  
Not when he'd heard what he'd heard back in the woods. . . .  
  
Sneaking another look at Kili and Bofur, he notes their askew clothing and the redness of their faces that cannot be accounted for by the fire alone. It irks him— _his_  brother, after all—but he supposes he can accept anything, at this point in their journey.  
  
With a shared look, the pair separate, going to opposite sides of the fire, Kili to sit next to Fili, Bofur to sit next to Bifur. No one seems to make note of their coming back, even just to hail them.  
  
“Did I miss anything?” Kili asks tentatively, settling next to Fili, who snorts.  
  
“Only all of dinner and most of afters. Gandalf brought a pie,” he adds off Kili's questioning look.  
  
“Ah, well.” Kili laughs a little, nervously. He contrives to look dissatisfied with the situation, but the fact is, Kili can't lie to save his life. His face wants, more than anything, to be grinning.  
  
“Where're the mushrooms?” Fili asks with all the false innocence he can muster—and unlike his brother,  _he can_  lie. And very well.  
  
Kili turns bright red and begins to stammer. “I—they—well—”   
  
Finally, it gets even too painful for Fili to watch his brother stammer and splutter, and he nudges Kili with his shoulder. Even offers him a reassuring smile.  
  
“It's alright,” he says, surprised to realize that it is. After what he'd heard Bofur say— _there are some things worth waiting for, and this, what's between us, I like to think, is one of them_ —it's _truly_  alright. However—  
  
“If he hurts you in any way,” Fili murmurs pleasantly, so low Kili has to lean in to catch it. “If he causes you even one moment of pain, I'll beat him to death with a shovel.”  
  
Kili's mouth drops open and he darts a look across the fire at Bofur, who's laughing at something Bifur is saying. Then Kili's looking back at Fili, mouth still hanging open.  
  
“You—what— _how_ —?”  
  
“Well, I think that'll do me for the night.” Fili stands up, yawning. Then he claps a still spluttering Kili on the shoulder solidly. “Bombur—want my pie—look who I'm asking, of course you do.” He walks it over to Bombur who takes it with a quiet, but excited  _thanks!_  
  
Then Fili's striding back into the barn, everything right in his world, once more.


End file.
